


Talisman

by thesaddestboner



Category: Baseball RPF
Genre: Baseball, Detroit Tigers, Gen, Injury, Ironically Hopeful Ending, Male Friendship, Not Beta Read
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-07-20
Updated: 2009-07-20
Packaged: 2017-12-03 14:48:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesaddestboner/pseuds/thesaddestboner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>When Joel finds out that he’s probably going to start the season on the disabled list, he wants to scream.  He wants to tear apart the clubhouse like Hurricane Zumaya, leaving nothing but destruction in his wake.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Talisman

**Author's Note:**

> Umm, kind of dumb. But I felt the need to finish something in order to force my way through this extended writer’s block. 
> 
> [This](http://nullrefer.com/?http://indioproducts.com/neck-tiger-s-tooth-white.html) is the necklace Justin gives Joel. 
> 
> [Originally posted here](http://community.livejournal.com/baseball100/46862.html?style=mine).
> 
> You can find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/thesaddestboner) and [tumblr](http://saddestboner.tumblr.com).

When Joel finds out that he’s probably going to start the season on the disabled list, he wants to scream. He wants to tear apart the clubhouse like Hurricane Zumaya, leaving nothing but destruction in his wake.

The shoulder isn’t healing like it should, _apparently_. They want to be _careful_ with him. Leyland thinks they rushed him back too soon last season anyways, so they might as well play it _safe_ this time.

Joel wants to shout at the top of his lungs, “ _Fuck_ playing it safe! Just give me a goddamn glove and ball!” but he knows they’d probably just get one of the attendants to babysit him until he’s one-hundred per cent. So he holds his tongue.

It’s like a bad punchline at this point, really. When he gets the news, he starts laughing-- he just can’t help it-- and Rand looks at him worriedly, like he thinks maybe Joel has finally cracked, finally gone off his rocker.

Joel doesn’t think anyone would blame him if he did. It’s a lot for a guy to take. 

Leyland tells him not to come to the ballpark, to just sit at home and be a husband to his wife and a brother to Rich and Ashley and a son to his _mamí_ and _papí_ , and to not even fuckin’ _think_ of picking up a baseball ’til Rand and the rest of the staff tells him it’s okay.

Joel knows that, objectively, Leyland is only doing this for his own good. He doesn’t want Joel to fuck himself up even more than he already has. But, shit, baseball’s maybe the second most important thing to Joel besides family. He doesn’t know how he’s going to keep sane without it. And he just barely managed to hold his shit together the _last_ time he ended up on the DL.

After Leyland delivers that ultimatum, he figures he probably won’t.

-

“I’m fuckin’ cursed,” Joel announces to the mostly empty clubhouse.

Verlander looks up from a crossword puzzle, a pen cap caught between his teeth. “Wha’ ah ’at?” He plucks the pen cap out of his mouth and smacks his lips. “Let’s try that again. What was that?”

“I said, I’m fuckin’ _cursed_ , man.” Joel points to his injured shoulder. He’s not supposed to lift his arm too much, because they don’t want him to cause anymore damage. He’s being treated like he’s fragile, damaged goods. The sad thing is, he _is_ damaged goods, which just pisses him right the fuck off. He hates when they’re right about him.

“You’re not cursed,” Verlander says, returning his attention to his crossword. “You’re just a little-- unlucky, is all.”

”Unlucky ain’t much more different than cursed,” Joel says.

Verlander is flopped out on the leather couch in front of the big screen clubhouse TV, and Joel is in front of his locker, plugging away at a new iPhone app. It’s been a relatively quiet, reporter-free afternoon so far, but Joel knows that’s about to change. Batting practice is scheduled to start in a half an hour and that’s usually when the reporters start circling, looking for fresh meat.

“Cursed implies that there’s some sorta supernatural force behind it. Unlucky’s just _unlucky_ , man.” Verlander scratches something out on his crossword. “I mean, like, the Red Sox were legit cursed, the Cubs too, but Chuck Knoblauch throwin’ all those balls into the stands and shit? That was just pretty unlucky.”

“How d’you know somebody didn’t curse him or somethin’?” Joel checks the time and sets his iPhone down in his locker; batting practice is gonna to start in a few, better get ready for long-toss. He slowly gets to his feet to stretch his arm out, before he remembers, _hey, they told me not to even set foot on the field until gametime ’cause my ass is gonna be glued to the bench_. Joel sits back down in front of his locker in a pissy huff, brow knotted deeply in consternation.

“What’sa matter?” Verlander asks. He slings a long, skinny leg over the back of the couch and bobs his foot.

“Whaddaya _think’s_ the matter, Ver? Can’t fuckin’ do _anything_ ’til Rand an’ them say I can. Can’t do long-toss, can’t even chill in the bullpen ’cause Leyland don’t want me to even _entertain_ the idea of pitchin’ yet.” Joel kicks his feet against the scuffed up carpet like a child. “I fuckin’ _hate_ this shit, man. I don’t care what you say, I’m fuckin’ cursed.”

Verlander tosses his newspaper aside and rises from the couch in Dracula-like fashion. “C’mere, I got somethin’ that’ll make it better,” he says.

Joel’s eyes bug out in alarm. “What, like, Percocet? ’Cause they said I ain’t allowed to have-- ”

“No, not _Percocet_!” Verlander scowls. “Just c’mere.” He flaps a hand at Joel, who reluctantly gets up off his stool and trundles over. Verlander turns and starts rifling through all the shit in his locker, before producing a silver chain with some sort of charm on it.

“We goin’ steady now?” Joel quips.

“Let me put it on you-- stop squirmin’, Joel.” Verlander pinches him in the shoulder-- the good one-- and manages to wrestle an arm around his neck.

“Fuck, man, I don’t want none of your jewelry,” Joel complains, ’though he gives up on getting away. Sad state of affairs when big Joel Zumaya’s lost his fighting instinct, no doubt. He could easily turn Verlander into a pretzel, but he doesn’t even lift a finger to stop him.

Verlander slips the chain around his neck. “It’s called a tiger’s tooth necklace-- fuck you, stop laughin’, you punk-- and my girlfriend got it for me a while back, when I was in the minors. She said it’d protect me against harm, evil spirits, jinxes and curses and the like. And my luck’s been pretty solid ever since, but I’m thinkin’ you need this now more’n I do.” Verlander pats a hand over the gnarly looking tiger’s tooth now dangling around Joel’s neck.

Joel looks down at the tooth and fingers it. He finds it amazing that this one little tooth could protect a big guy like him from all the stuff that’s been dogging him his entire career. “You didn’t tell me you was the superstitious type,” Joel says, tucking the tooth into the collar of his undershirt.

Verlander just grins and shrugs. “I’m not, really, ’cept when it comes to that necklace.”

The tooth rasps against his skin, over his chest, and it feels right. Safe. He can’t help but smile a little bit. “Thanks, man.”

“Don’t mention it.” Verlander grins and loops an arm around Joel’s neck and pulls him into his shoulder. 

The tiger’s tooth bounces against his chest and Joel reaches up to finger it some more. “You know what? I’m already feelin’ good ’bout this season,” he says.

“Yeah?” Verlander drags him back over to the couch and he sinks into the cushions, flipping the TV on and settling on a COPS marathon on TruTV.

Joel flops next to him and puts his feet up on Verlander’s crossword, on the little flimsy card table in front of them. “Yup,” he says, grinning over at Verlander, still touching the tiger’s tooth. “Got a real good feelin’ now.”

**Author's Note:**

> The author of this piece intends no insult, slander, or copyright infringement, and is not profiting from this work. This story is a complete work of fiction and does not necessarily reflect on the nature of the individuals featured. This is for entertainment purposes only. If you found this story while Googling your name or the names of your friends, hit the back button now.


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